


pisse

by protaganope



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 19:55:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17189381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/protaganope/pseuds/protaganope
Summary: hamiltone,,, forgets to,,, how you say, piss





	pisse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waitfor_it](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitfor_it/gifts).



> merry belated xmas ,,binch

Hamilton wouldn’t stop tapping his foot.

It shouldn’t bother Jefferson as much as it in fact did, shouldn’t aggravate his nerves so terribly, but it had been a long meeting in the cabinet that day and he was tired and uncomfortable and Hamilton wouldn’t stop tapping his foot.

The POTUS had already questioned the secretary of the treasury on the matter, but Washington had never been quick to scold his favourite, so here Thomas was, resorting to petty insult (again) to try and make sense of the matter.

“Hamilton, stop that. We already know that you’re impatient and immature, relax.” He leant on the table with one elbow as the consistent beat of Hamilton’s foot staggered, out of time for a moment before speeding up. A metre for his emotions, his behaviour, Jefferson thought mildly. Hamilton screwed his face up for a moment before tingeing pink. Then, he smirked.

Bastard, Jefferson’s mind produces, before the man even opens his mouth.

“Oh I’m sorry, that sounds like you’re infringing on my right to bodily autonomy.” Hamilton’s tone was like spat acid, and it likely came out faster than he intended as it seemed to escape him all at once. Exasperated, Jefferson shook his head.

“Don’t align me with Adams, he’s a member of your party, not mine.”

“Why he’s with me, I’ll never know. The man’s terrible, don’t even get me started on all the idiotic things he’s done-” At this, Washington noticeably glares in Hamilton’s direction, coughing once as a warning. Hamilton had a habit of finding personal insult in anything that had a pulse, as well as revealing everything he knew about everything else, and was all too eager to do so. Washington, however, had standards. “But you don’t need to know.” A break to Hamilton’s speech; Jefferson was quick not to waste the opportunity.

“I really don’t. So, we’re having a serious discussion? Keep control of your damned self, it’s not that difficult.” His tone was patronising and he didn’t care for it, taking pleasure in the stiffness of Hamilton’s posture as the man thrust his hands into his lap to stop the bouncing of his leg. He leaned back in his chair, and continued, “On the subject of control, what’s this incompetency I hear about…” And the matter was temporarily forgotten.

Temporarily.

The tapping gradually waned back in. Thomas clenched his jaw, but didn’t say anything. Hamilton’s posture remained half frozen, but something about it seemed unnatural. He knew that was how Hamilton liked to sit, of course, they were rivals and knew each other well after searching for any viable weakness and filing it away to use in debate.

Something about a refusal to slow down, to let his guard down for even a moment. Ridiculous, Jefferson had thought then, and still does now as he notes how uncomfortable maintaining that posture must be.

But something wasn’t right. He wasn’t certain what, but something. It might unnerve a weaker man, but Thomas had long become acquainted with vague feelings of discomfort. He’d figure it out. He always did.

Hamilton’s jaw was tight, like Thomas’, yet clearly not out of frustration. Washington was talking, he usually was over the moon at that. Understandable, almost of Washington’s notes were written by Hamilton himself, of course he’d love his own words spoken by his idol. It wasn’t just the muscle that was taut, though. His teeth were grit together, too.

Interesting.

Careful not to be obvious, Jefferson looked Hamilton up and down. It was hard to see, being basically across the room from him, but was he shifting in his seat? That was unusual. Thomas commented on his rigid posture already, the man usually kept his torso still as death, hands flying about and mouth travelling a mile a minute.

He knocked something off the table with a calculated hand, and leant down to retrieve it. Underneath, he could see well. Hamilton’s legs were crossed, contorted in a way that looked almost painful to Jefferson’s eyes. Why would he-?

Ah.

Returning to his chair, Jefferson kept his face carefully blank. Hamilton needed to piss. He could bring this up. Use it as a weapon, point it out at the end of one of his counterarguments to see the floor drop out from under Hamilton’s feet. Would his eyes grow wide as he pointed out his apparent need to piss?

Would he flush an even darker pink as Thomas uttered it, casual as though he were speaking about the weather? If Thomas were lucky, his eyes might water a little, embarrassment eating away at the confident mask he knows the man puts on before these meetings. Taking in the urgency of Hamilton’s demeanour, would the shock cause him to have an accident, right there?

Thomas’ pulse quickens traitorously under his skin. He wouldn’t do that. Yet.

Instead, he watched.

The hurried nature of Hamilton’s speech was glaringly obvious now, the little stammers he concealed with outrage for the cause he was advocating. Thomas heard that he was quite the lawyer, before this position, that he had won his cases and revelled in the money it produced. Jefferson takes pride in not relating. He has more class than that, old-money class.

One pale hand of the treasury slips under the table, and Thomas‘ eye yearns to follow it. Hamilton likely is trying to alleviate the pressure on his stomach, perhaps by pulling his belt away. Thomas runs his hand over his groin and pretends to be ignorant, feigns normalcy, trying not to show just how aroused he has become.

Hamilton’s shoulder moves slightly, and Thomas imagines him perhaps massaging his stomach to soothe the cramps, fighting the urge to let go. Jefferson wants to work up a rhythm, stroke himself gently, light and teasing touches that would tide him over, for the time being. He settles for the image in his mind and is immediately unsatisfied.

How they haven’t been found out yet, he doesn’t know.

… Or, spoke too soon. As the meeting adjourns, he doesn’t miss Washington’s less than quiet order for Hamilton to stay behind. He smirks to himself as Hamilton swallows, before, loud as ever, agreeing.

He walks out with his papers arranged sensibly in his grasp, and once in the privacy of his office, shoots a rather transparent message to Hamilton’s pager telling him meet him afterward. A beat, and he adds time sensitive to the end of it. That should tell him all he needs to know, and he focuses his attention on reading the book Adams recommended him the day prior.

* * *

“Son, what was that?”

“Sir, we’ve been over this-”

“You’ve never behaved like that during a meeting before, and quite frankly I’m concerned.”

“It’s nothing sir, honestly.”

“If there’s a problem, Hamilton, you must share it so that something can be done. I know I don’t make it easy, giving you so much to do, but you don’t have to suffer everything alone.”

“Thank you, for your concern, sir, but really; it’s nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

A frown. A sigh.

“Alright.”

“Am I excused, sir?”

A mild wave of the hand.

“Yes, leave now.”

* * *

Hamilton leaves the meeting room with a relieved breath and a hand to his belly. Now‘s his chance.

But God’s never been so kind to him, doesn’t love him. Just as Hamilton is zipping to the office bathrooms, fast as he can, his pager goes off.

A summons from Jefferson, it reads. Time sensitive, it mocks.

Hamilton reacts with a half aborted shout of frustration as he turns on his heel, in the direction of Jefferson’s office. He’s shaking as he stands outside the door, all but hopping up and down on the spot. He wrings his hands out and tries to maintain his breathing.

They wouldn’t talk for a great period of time, so long as they didn’t draw each other into another fight or rekindle an old argument. So maybe he bangs on the door a little too hard, but who could blame him? He’s desperate.

He can see Jefferson through the rectangle of netted glass, that rich, smug republican asshole sitting at his stupidly pristine desk and looking over documents. The man’s head tilts slightly to signify that he’s acknowledged Hamilton’s presence, but apparently he’s not worth any more than a few documents of old and (in Hamilton’s opinion, likely idiotic) white conservative men, for he doesn’t beckon him in until the papers are signed. Thomas takes his glasses off with a pleased chuckle, dark and halfway to menace, and Hamilton shifts his balance to the other foot before trying to make himself less obvious. It doesn’t really work, but Jefferson’s not looking at Hamilton, but rather, the open door behind him.

“If you’re going to yell, Hamilton,” Jefferson began, southern drawl strangely invasive, “I assume you’re okay with the rest of the office forwarding you the bill for their hearing aids.” At Hamilton’s scowl, he leaned in over his desk, and said, lower, “Shut the door.’

Hamilton’s face scrunches up before the man even finishes his utterance. Prick. Jefferson was the insufferable guy he knew. The next words are out of Hamilton’s mouth on reflex.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Click, the door sounded.

He sits down in the chair opposite Jefferson’s desk without being asked and revels in the amused yet frustrated sigh it yielded. He was hoping to go for nonchalant, but he ended up with knees and ankles almost dead-bolted together so he could keep the tension on his bladder. A little more...

Thomas’ eyes him up and down, inwardly wincing at his posture and clearly trying not to be obvious, but he says nothing. Hamilton’s threatening to flush.

He just wants to get this over with. Quickly.

Feet bouncing, Hamilton checks his watch with an over-exaggerated flourish, “I don’t have time for this; what.”

There is something to Jefferson that sets his hackles rising, as he pretends to be wholly invested in something under his nails. It was common knowledge that the two of them wound each other up, but this was completely one-sided. Hamilton refused to be the only one to leave the conversation frustrated and moody on principle, so he knew he’d have to entertain the man a little while. A reputation was so easily tainted, and Hamilton hated that it was one of the one things he had to protect.

“I need you to look this over.”

That was. It?

He stared blankly at ~~the demon~~  Jefferson for a moment, taking in his bemusement, the ease in his posture. He flipped the screen toward Alex, revealing an email from Mr. Madison, reading: “We need to plan a meeting with Hamilton. Our bill goes before Congress on the 15th, and we need to sell Washington on it before he can veto it. Sit him down and get a date out of him; we don’t have time to waste.”

Looking over the document once more, he twitched in his seat and squinted at Jefferson. “You couldn’t have just emailed this to me?”

“We need a game plan, Hamilton,” he turned the screen around into its original position, leaning back in his chair. “I need you to come up with something. Washington’s got a soft spot for you, so use it. Repealing the ACA will put us even further in debt.” He shifted side to side, eyebrows knitting together. “So, what d’you got?”

Hamilton gave the idea thought, but whatever he could conjure vanished as his bladder lurched. His eyes shifted, he searched for an out. Sputtering, he started, “Jefferson. I’ll just email this to you, I’m, uh, really busy.” He sucked in a breath, clambering out of the seat and pushing it closer to the desk.

A pause. “Hamilton, sit down.” But he was already near the door, shaking his head. All he could think about was getting away, before it was too late.

“Jefferson, I told you, don’t tell me what to-“

“I said, _sit_ _the_ _fuck_ _down,_ Hamilton.” A shiver ran up Alexander’s spine, the threat swirling around him, generating sudden lightning in his veins. Jefferson, not breaking eye contact, gestured to the chair he’d just abandoned. “Sit.”

Hamilton sat.

“Good boy.” At this, he twitched. He shot his glare up at Jefferson, though in his bewilderment, it likely appeared more as a strange contortion. The Virginian smiled over at him, though there was a strange tension to the curve of his lips. Jefferson let out a hum. “You like that?”

The bright, intelligent gleam to his eyes was telling.

There are some moments in life where it dawns on you just how fucked you are. This was one of those moments.

Still playing ignorant to the turmoil he had just created, Thomas strolled out from behind his desk and leant back against the wood. Hamilton swallowed, mentally cursing every deity and ghost to ever interfere with mankind while trying to maintain his cover. Just keep frosty, keep biting, leave as fast as you can-

A particularly close call came with refolding his arms, a lurch that almost made him lean in on himself in a last ditch attempt to keep going. His thighs were sore from tensing, and Hamilton allowed himself one particularly breathless exhale before remembering where he was.

Jefferson wasn’t finished. He, however, had had enough. This was never going to end if he didn’t do something.

“Look, I really have to go.” His voice broke off into a whine, and he couldn’t stop his hands thrusting to hold himself as a deep pang crashed into him like a rough tide.

Oh no.

His eyes opened and darted toward his enemy. Thinly veiled panic met reclined and amused. Head down, his hair fell into his face, further adding to his disheveled state. Thomas, ever the perfect picture of southern charm, sent him a conspiratorial smile.

“It’s okay; I know.”

As if that didn’t completely pull the carpet out from under his feet.

Hamilton immediately flushed bright pink, and he shrank further into himself before trying in vain to tense. His bladder throbbed, painfully now, full to the brim and eager to remind him of the fact.

In a place where he could feel anger or further embarrassment, it’s obvious which one he would favour.

“If you know, let me leave.” His teeth grit together, hot frustration dripping like hot lava from his words. Thomas’ expression didn’t change.

“You won’t make it now, anyway.” He said casually, as though discussion was still occurring and why did Hamilton find that so attractive? He pushed it to the back of his mind for later, boosted his anger to the forefront.

“So what do you suggest I do?” Sarcasm was easy to fall into now. He balled his fists, feet dancing.

“Give in.” Thomas leaned off of the desk, walked the few steps it took to reach the chair Hamilton could barely keep still on and outstretched a hand. “Let go.”

Hamilton scoffed. “Like I’d ever-“ Again, his voice cracked, though this time it was from something outside himself. Thomas had a tight grip at the back of his head, fingers laced into the dark strands and pulling, pulling. Hamilton couldn’t help the moan spilling from his lips, and his arms released himself by instinct to instead press fruitlessly at Jefferson’s, to gain a sort of counter against the pressure.

The deep chuckle falling from Jefferson’s mouth had him leaning into the touch despite it all, and he twisted, openly shaking. Swapping to bargaining, he spoke fast as he devised a plan.

“Let me away, at least, don’t let me get it on you.” He spat out, and the words held no menace and he knew it.

Thomas did not. He pulled him closer, had him tripping out of the chair and further into an embrace, of sorts, one that left Hamilton scrabbling for handholds. Open palmed against Jefferson’s front, he trembled hard against the other man’s taller frame, unable to mask his overwhelming need any longer.

For a moment, he thought he could stay in this limbo forever, the strong scent of Jefferson overtaking his senses, but the very present and physical squeeze was quick to remind him of urgency. His voice fell out again, though incomprehensible.

Thomas whispered praise into his ear and tightened his hold, breath hot. His tone so dark and dirty it extracted even sweeter moans from Hamilton’s wavering self.

And then, he couldn’t hold on. His breath became impossibly faster, and hips, bending back at first, leant forward into an arch with a stuttered gasp. A rush of heat surged through his core as piss ran down his legs. He could hear it, that hissing that was just faint enough to pick up on.

His clothes were soaked. The dark patch on his lower half only grew.

Thomas didn’t seem to care. Hamilton looked up at him again, this time through eyes threatening tears, to see him in a changed state. Pupils blown wide, breath heavy, the clear markers of arousal bubbling just beneath the surface.

Huh.

Hamilton grinned something awful.


End file.
